


Respite

by deathwailart



Series: The Courts [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Banshees, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Domestic, F/M, Folklore, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Scottish Character, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even with the Veil to protect them from the outside world who know nothing of what walks in their midst, the supernatural still need a place to be themselves and to forget about the world.  One little farm hidden away in Scotland run by a banshee and cù sìth functions that way with the head of house providing comfort, advice and a friendly ear for all that pass her threshold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

Part of her always wanted a nice place out in the country when she was younger, somewhere to sprawl out and relax in, limited numbers of people so there'd be less wailing to do, less pain and grief. She has it now, an old farm that functions as a Veil hotspot, a place where they can go to relax and be themselves away from prying eyes so long as someone can run it long term and with Caoimhe a married woman now, Shirley gives her space, gives her distance and mourns the fact that in not too long, her daughter will look older than Shirley ever will; this is her gift to the line, to be able to grow old and enjoy their lives and families instead of being cut short when still in their prime. Luckily – or maybe it's fate, maybe their kind are drawn to one another more often or not – her husband knows exactly what Shirley is and though he might not know all the details, it means she can visit and be herself instead of pretending to be a suspiciously similar relative or having to employ her magic as a disguise. Still, she needs the space and Shirley remembers herself at Caoimhe's age, remembers what she did and the distance is necessary as is the distraction of running the farm. It's large, bedroom after bedroom with some of the other buildings converted and the kitchen is the centre of the main house, slap bang in the middle, overlooking the fields where animals graze. No one's planted anything in years really, they just let the land grow wild for birds and beasts and whatever else there may be – there's the fairy ring no one has dared to touch that she spends time by often. Here in this farm house, there are rules to abide by that every Court has agreed to, rules that come into effect the second they set foot on the land with all transgressions up to the current head of house. There rules are simple: be polite to your host, no violence towards others on the land, no deaths or bloodshed on the grounds.  
  
There's another rule that's perhaps not quite a rule, perhaps it's something implied or in the air around them here where the Veil is a warm, soothing balm to the weary or the frightened. There's always work to do on the farm and around the buildings and the whole idea of having a steady hand to look after the house is that they provide a friendly ear, advice or just some comfort by simply being there. Shirley's at the right point of her life, always will be now, the matriarch figure who can see far ahead and who knows what to say or do at the right moment. She helps them, they help her. And if someone tries to loaf around like a freeloader she obligates them as is her right by blood and by her place in the house. No one has ever complained once they've been caught and before they leave the scales are balanced and she can wish them well. Shirley usually repays them for their work around the grounds with food, her fairy meals that fill their bellies more than normal food should, imparting some bone deep comfort, good hearty meals. She learns their favourites usually but she likes to default to what she knows, all the old Scottish and Irish recipes that kept her family going. It's easier to put the right amount of power into the meals when she can remember how they made her feel if her parents or grandfather made them for her and her cullen skink is often requested, word of mouth or 'rumour' – her kitchen is never out of finnan haddie after all.  
  
She's not alone in the running of the farm. It's not Blair with her, not with Caoimhe raised and them drifting apart with Blair making his own path – he spends time by the sea now, meeting his mother as she should have been and her selkie family, the family he plans to join when the time is right. He hasn't been to the farm though she sent him an invitation and he wished her well, sending her a large hamper as a gift. Sometimes she mourns what might have been between them but there's no use crying over spilt milk or wishing to change the past. She has Corbin who's a steady solid presence all the while with his biting wit and sometimes surly tempers. He runs wild here in the nights, a big green hound baying and he comes home to her with his wild eyes but puppyish, pressing his head to her collarbones, scuffing his bare feet across wood floors. Corbin was a farmer's son, long, long ago, before he was made into what he is now in a ritual history has forgotten and he remembers that life, takes to it with vigour.  
  
She's got her Oxford Sandy and Blacks and her Gloucestershire Old Spots, plenty of little piglets underfoot, Scots Greys strutting and pecking around and a couple of young Aberdeen Angus rejected by their mothers and of course, her Highland cows. There are feral goats in these parts too, descended from the goats left behind in the Highland Clearances by those forced from the land, not farmed for milk or meat, free to come and go as they please although sometimes she's been brought haunches of goat and so long as only one or two are taken infrequently, she doesn't mind. She lets them eat out of her hands if she can tempt them close, all skittish and wild. Often they roam with the sheep, a strange looking flock but she doesn't care. Corbin says she spoils the animals too much with the way she fusses but she calls him jealous and keeps a close eye on them all the same, going out every morning to collect eggs and to sort the feed as the sun comes up so there's fresh food for breakfast.  
  
It's not what she thought her life would be but then again, very little is.  
  
Right now the house is fairly quiet. A púka making his way elsewhere but needing a place to stay who keeps urging her to restore the old mill so she can plant wheat and have the bread all her own (she's strongly considering it the more he talks about it), a vampire and werewolf up from London who've been best friends for over a century and who work for the police (the werewolf a detective, the vampire a lab rat in his own words), a young witch who only recently discovered her magic (and Shirley will never have that same fear of magic as so many others but she knows the fear in this young woman and hopes she'll stay for long enough to help her) and an angel (they rib each other mercilessly even though Corbin gets his hackles up and he calls himself Tobias even though she knows it's not his real name.) All in all, lots of space for them to all rattle around in, dinner less of a production. It's mid-morning and she's kneading dough – baking bread is perhaps one of her favourite things to do now, always trying something new and she loves how the house smells when she's done, it smells like a home and it spreads throughout the main building, the very reason the kitchen is at the heart. Everyone is off doing their own thing – Laurent, the werewolf, went off before breakfast, thanking her for the lunch she'd made him, off into the surrounding hills to get the city out of his head. Isaac, his vampire friend is still sleeping upstairs in the darkest room where the light won't come in for hours. Iris, the witch, is probably in the library. A lot of people bring books and leave them behind and Shirley has no idea what's in there exactly only that she can always find exactly what she wants, no matter how seemingly obscure it is. Tobias and Brogan, the púka, are off to check on some of the livestock leaving Shirley to putter around in an apron, flour on the board.  
  
She's always aware of anything around her linked to the supernatural world, something that's just a part of her fairy magic but she never hears Corbin when he comes back unless he wants her to, no matter if he's barefoot or not. What they have is still fairly new in the grand scheme of things but they've known each other so long that it's easy to slide into new roles that were what was planned before Shirley ended up changing the script a little along the way. His hands come around her waist, chin on her shoulder. He's not the tallest of men, not by modern standards at least, so he barely has to bend at all to do it. His cheek is cold where it presses against her neck and it makes the kiss he presses there seem all the hotter.  
  
"And why are you hanging all over me like a bad smell Corbin Curran?" She asks as she continues to knead the dough beneath her hands. It's almost done, she just has to leave it to sit for a while then put it in the pan and in the oven. Corbin doesn't answer, rubbing his head on her shoulder and well, he might be a man but he's a Cú Síth and that means he sometimes acts like a dog so she finishes up what she's doing and wipes her hands before reaching behind to scratch at his scalp. "Something the matter?"  
  
"Just felt like watching," he replies. "S'been a while since it's been quiet like this, most of the house to ourselves."  
  
"I like it when it's busy."  
  
"Well you would, all that matriarch business, probably feel in your element." She kicks back with one foot – lightly – hitting her heel against his shin. "What? Don't deny that you like having a brood under your wing."  
  
"You need to stop eyeing up my hens, none of them are for eating." She steps away from him to wash her hands and he follows her (by the All-Father he's like a new puppy half the time and years ago she would have hated it but exploited it whereas now she just sighs and lets him do whatever makes him happy and tells him when he's getting smothering) plucking the knot of her apron. "I need that, bread's not in the oven yet."  
  
"Where's everyone off to today?" He asks when she turns around, elbows resting on the counter.  
  
"Isaac's asleep, Iris is reading, Laurent's in the hills and Tobias and Brogan when to check on the cows. I should be asking where you were really, you were off before I even got up."  
  
"Fishmonger, we can't have you unable to make your speciality at a moment's notice."  
  
"Thank you," she says, leaning forward to kiss him and he crowds her closer to the counter, the cupboard doors against the backs of her legs as his hands cup her face, deepening the kiss and licking into her mouth. She runs her hands through his short hair, down his neck and to his broad shoulders and when he pulls away, he rests their foreheads together.  
  
There's a grin on his face when he steps back and she knows the look in those bright eyes all too well. "You're welcome."  
  
"We're not having sex in the kitchen Corbin."  
  
The look on his face is priceless: two parts hurt, one part sheepishness, one part annoyance and a dash of wickedness to go along with it.  
  
"Why not? It's the quietest it's been!"  
  
"Vampires can hear. Someone can come back at any moment. Iris could walk in."  
  
"Vampire boy can hear us any time and I can wedge the door shut with a chair."  
  
"Corbin, I cook here. We eat here. I'm not going to let you bend me over the table."  
  
"Wasn't what I was planning actually," and he presses her against the counter again, licks his lips. "It's-"  
  
"If you even think of finishing that thought I'll get someone to build a kennel for you. My kitchen, my rules. No one has sex where I make food, my food should be enough as it is."  
  
That gives him a moment of pause, considering it. "Fair enough. So never?"  
  
"Back at the flat, I don't mind when it's just us and Cass said her and Cedric would come up so we could go back to the city for a while, do whatever needs to be done and have time where it's just us." Corbin grins, kisses her again, long and slow and deep and it's really tempting to say to hell with her rules but she'll stick to them and moves away to put the bread in the oven. He grabs what needs to be washed as she wipes down where she was working and when she gets close enough he unties her apron with one soapy hand. "I'm surprised you didn't go off with Laurent," she says conversationally as she moves around the kitchen – lunch is usually never organised, the fridge and cupboards left open for whatever people might want or need – rearranging things as Corbin finishes the washing up.  
  
"Nah, we're going out tonight, full moon, figured he'd give sleeping beauty upstairs a break."  
  
"You be careful, don't play rough with the wolves."  
  
"Oi!" Corbin scoffs but she knows he's too amused to be properly offended by her. "Hounds were bred to take down wolves."  
  
"Don't know if you've noticed darling but he's got a good foot on you."  
  
"Size isn't everything."  
  
The words hang between them, Corbin up to his elbows in soapy water, Shirley removing her apron slowly and arching an eyebrow until she can't keep the laughter in and leans over, snorting helplessly.  
  
"And I'm the one with the dirty mind in this house," he mutters to himself. She kisses him on the cheek as she walks past to go change and get some work of her own done. She still sews, still designs and she's got a whole sewing room to herself in what used to be a study – the kind of room that she can feel a thrum of energy from, all the previous occupants. It's calming, really, when she's either sketching an idea or pinning fabric in place, flipping through swatches. Caoimhe is the one who sorts out appointments – she's got a business mind she probably got from Blair somewhere along the way and it was her choice to set up with Shirley who maybe pushed too hard for her to be independent – and Shirley goes when she can. After all, as the crow flies is the quickest route. One day she'll need to manifest illusions, she can't be the same face and she's not going to force a family business on any of them, not when they already have the banshee bloodline to contend with but this is what she loves, what she enjoys. More importantly, it brings in good money that isn't needed here where the Courts provide for them all but is definitely needed when it's just her and Corbin on their own or with her family. She settles down to work for as long as she pleases – if she's needed someone will come find her – and tries to ignore the gathering headache at the base of her neck. It's almost always there and she's so used to it by now, used to the pain and exhaustion that she forces herself to get up and deal with every day. Routines work. Routines and trying to do things to distract herself because this was her choice and she has...she has centuries. She'll take all their grief and pain into herself and she won't complain about it even once because she did terrible things to break the part of their bloodline and calling she considered to be a curse and it's all worth it to see Caoimhe as bright as she is and not nearly as much a slave to their fairy nature as Shirley was. Caoimhe's like her grandmother, according to Lachlan. It's comforting but it hurts all the same and Shirley deserves that.  
  
She doesn't know how long she's been working (she doesn't believe in keeping a clock in her workspace) so it's only when she finishes pinning a hem, readjusting it as needed until it sits just so that she realises someone's watching her, turning quickly to meet the eyes of Tobias, lounging in her doorway.  
  
"Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," he apologises, holding both hands up.  
  
"It's fine, what time is it?"  
  
"A little after two – you might need to phone a vet, Brogan's sure some of your cows are about to calf, he's telling Corbin."  
  
"Ta much. Hopefully no werewolves end up scaring them into calving too early, _not_ something I want to explain to the vet."  
  
Tobias huffs out a quiet laugh, nodding in agreement. "Even the Veil won't cover that?"  
  
"Not something I'm willing to test. This place is special enough without doing anything to jeopardise that, that and I've never had one during the full moon before."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"You know all the werewolves I met before? Pack. The loners were rare, skittish."  
  
"Stronger in packs." He's still hovering so she waves him in – there's two chairs, sometimes Corbin comes to join her or, more often, she uses it to store things she might need that she's too lazy to file away – and takes a seat, pushing the mannequin she was working on out of the way. "Like a lot of things, right?"  
  
"I don't know – my kind of fairy, we like to be on our own, we're not the group sort. Witches though," she catches him wincing slightly, "they were better as a coven. Less likely to go entirely off the rails. I heard vampires were better in groups."  
  
"A lot of vampires and werewolves mix now, Court Blood Moon likes that and them perpetuating the hatred in fiction? Easier to hide."  
  
"What about your lot then?"  
  
"My lot?"  
  
"Angels." She leans forward, elbows on her knees and chin in her palms, a small smile on her face. "You know that I always know what steps over this threshold courtesy of the Veil and my position here. Last I recall, there were no angels named Tobias."  
  
"You live as long as I have and you learn to reinvent yourself as needed. It's a lesson you should learn now for when the time comes." There's no judgement in his tone, no levity and even though it should hurt her to have the truth of her future thrown in her face so casually, it doesn't. He's quiet, always so quiet she thinks, smiling, encouraging, hovering around Iris more often than not. "Take a new name, a new face. A new life."  
  
"Unless I've got illusions or use my magic, I can't take a new face."  
  
"Well you'll learn how to work through all the intermediaries I'm sure."  
  
"So," she continues once she's taken a moment to consider his words, "how does it work for all of you? I know what happened to my Gods and to others – clap your hands if you believe and not many of us do. The Courts, the Veil, they were the sacrifices we had to make and mine had the war with the Milesians, we changed, everyone did but you?"  
  
"I lost my brothers," Tobias whispers, pained and soft. "We might have power but we lost so much, brother against brother, one who loved Father so much he was never able to bend or break, would only ever kneel to him." When she reaches out to take one of his hands it's softer than human skin should be but there are calluses there – she always thought angels would be untouched by the world when they supposedly existed long before anything else. "We are everything we need to be. We are absolute. We are righteous. We're jealous of you."  
  
"That goes for the Gods too," she adds and he inclines his head in agreement.  
  
For a while he's quiet and takes her hand in both of his, rubbing over them gently. It's strangely intimate but she doesn't pull away. Her job here is to give comfort and the subtle tension in his shoulder bleeds away. "It's hard without your family. You get to stay the head of the bloodline don't you?" She nods carefully and feels the pressure in the back of her skull rise a few notches. "We're scattered. I can go decades without being close to my brothers. I feel them, that's not something I can explain, it's the connection, it's something so much bigger than everything else and has been since we were made. I don't need them to be strong, to do my duty. We only come together when all your worlds end, Ragnarök, the apocalypse or the Rapture – whatever it is, that's when we'll be together again. For now I see them once in a blue moon, hear them singing. It's my lot to live like this."  
  
"Who are you?" She asks again.  
  
"You'll see." There's a shadow of wings on the wall when he gets to his feet. "Before I leave, you'll see."  
  
"Whatever you're looking for when you're here," she calls after him as he leaves, "I promise you that."  
  
"You know a promise is a dangerous thing to make to a fairy," she teases but she's already turning back to her work.  
  
"Oh believe me, I learned that the hard way with Mab."  
  
It's a story she wants to hear, a story she might have heard with a different name, wrapped up in something else like so many of their lives are. But she can wait for it and returns to sketching a few designs until Corbin swings his way around the door.  
  
"Natives are returning, vampire boy is pottering around in boxers and sunglasses."  
  
"I'll sort it, go get some firewood will you and check in on Iris."  
  
"Feathers is with her."  
  
"Feath- oh, Tobias?"  
  
"Yeah, feathers."  
  
"Right well, fire. I should get started on dinner."  
  
"You're going to let Fangs McTragifashion mooch food aren't you?"  
  
"Oh please, I won't feed him your rare steaks if that's what you're worried about."  
  
She holds in the laugh until Corbin's safely out of hearing range, heading off to the kitchen to get started on dinner where, true to Corbin's words, Isaac is scratching his stomach and leaning into the fridge. When she clears her throat he jumps and lets the fridge door bang shut, a guilty look on his face. Or what looks like a guilty look, it's hard to tell with his garish sunglasses on.  
  
"There's usually a dress code. It's implied."  
  
"Sorry. Starving, smelled the bread. I don't usually sleep that long, even for me and it's not exactly the Costa del Sol here is it?" His accent is a mix of old RP and wherever he lives now; Laurent has a French lilt to some words, little hints that they're not who they say they are. "Should I go? Make myself decent?"  
  
"Don't scratch below the navel and we're fine," she answers and he laughs, sliding the sunglasses up to rest on the top of his head for a moment before he squints and slides them back down. "I can close the curtains if you'd like," she offers, moving to do that but he's already waving her off.  
  
"Nah, s'blood. It's been a few days, I usually feed once a day but new place, don't want to draw attention to myself."  
  
"It's not a danger, is it?"  
  
"Nah," it's said too lightly for her to be comfortable but she trusts him. He wouldn't be here if he didn't abide by the rules the Court sets. "I'll just get to sleep. Laurent likes the country, I mean, gotta be careful in London if you're a bloody big werewolf and trying to get decent time off is a nightmare, let me tell you, but I can't let him go alone, y'know? Besides, it's nice up here. Quiet."  
  
"You should come downstairs more, parts of the house are darker, like the library." That prompts a scowl and she awaits a comment but Isaac opens the fridge to rummage around, bottles and containers rattling as he searches for something. "Problem?" She asks at last once she's checked on the bread, taking it out of the tin for dinner.  
  
"Magic...that kind it's just," Isaac waves a hand, opening a tub, sniffing then putting it back.  
  
"It's just what?"  
  
"Magic that isn't fairy magic is _dangerous_. I've seen what it does I've-"  
  
"Look. Shut the bloody fridge and look at me." She waits, folds her arms, straightens her shoulders and feels her stomach tighten. Corbin nicknamed this her matriarch stance early on when he met her, when she was a girl who thought she knew it all with her mother still alive. "In this house, we play nice. And if there's one thing we all know it's that we are scared of what we are deep down inside, we are scared of the things that creep and snarl in the marrow of our bones and we have _all_ needed someone to just be there, reassure us. Even if it's a lie. Do you understand?"  
  
It should be ridiculous. A banshee who looks like she's in her twenties telling off a vampire who's at least a century old clad in nothing but faded grey boxer briefs and sunglasses clutching last night's risotto to his chest. But it's not, not when he drops his head and hunches his shoulders and nods.  
  
"Yeah." It's breathed out on a sigh, a shaky exhale. "Yeah...I...I get that."  
  
Satisfied, she nods and turns away to start getting what she needs as Isaac heats up the risotto. She doesn't say a thing when he eats it out the container – one less piece of washing up for someone to do later and there's only enough for one. He eats the same way far too many of the men she's known have, the container just up under his chin, fairly shovelling the food into his mouth. She rolls her eyes and steps past him to grab a few things from the fridge, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she's washing her hands.  
  
"I think I was lucky enough growing up in a fairy household to not have to worry about magic. Mine doesn't come with the bad press." She pauses, considering before continuing. "Well, some bad press. But not the beacon to attract demons if that's how the story goes. The local coven where I lived, well they used to come into the family pub, it was a bit like this only on a smaller scale, night off to forget the world, that sort of thing."  
  
"There's a few places like that in London, one's this strip club and-" Isaac cuts himself off and Shirley's never seen a vampire blush before and even though she's trying hard to keep her face straight, she doesn't quite pull it off. "I know. Places. Places you're thinking of. I'll just shut up and let you talk."  
  
"Probably for the best. Anyway, I've known some of them for years, no signs of demons, no signs of them going mad."  
  
"You don't know that, you don't know what a person is really like until you're alone in the dark."  
  
She pauses where she's chopping carrots and points her knife at him. "Don't colour this with your own experiences. We're all different animals. I know what I am, I know what I've done, what I'd do, what I'm capable of and you walk around pretending you're human – I've heard enough stories about vampires to know how messy those first few years are." Isaac flinches, lips pressing into a thin line but she presses on. "I like to think that the reason the coven I knew did so well is because they had people out there. Where would you be if someone hadn't helped you?"  
  
"I..." she watches him swallow convulsively before he shakes his head. "I try not to think about that."  
  
Saying 'Iris doesn't have that luxury' is unnecessary. Instead she puts the kettle on and takes the empty tub from him to dump in the sink.  
  
"Put some clothes on and then go take tea to Iris."  
  
"I know we're meant to help out-"  
  
"You're taking someone tea because I'm too busy making dinner. Go." She puts enough of her voice into the word to make it a command, feels the throb in the back of her skull bloom outwards, across the back of her head, down her throat – Caoimhe will be on someone's door tonight, the wail echoing out into the still Edinburgh night air. Good thing it's a full moon tonight, the house will be quiet tomorrow, she can risk sleeping late. Isaac stares as though he might resist then remembers himself, giving her half a smile as he departs, bare feet slapping against the floor. There's a rustle of wings and there's Tobias at her elbow, reaching for a mug.  
  
"You're good. Remind me of one of my brothers."  
  
"Insult or flattery?"  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
"I'll take that as a compliment," she replies and smacks his hand when he tries to steal a carrot. "Don't steal from fairies."  
  
"Pagans and your rules." He laughs and saunters past Isaac who watches him with an awed sort of horror, leaning back to avoid them brushing past each other. "She likes chamomile best." The vampire gives him a confused look, scratching the back of his neck. "Iris. Chamomile, no sugar, honey."  
  
"How do you-"  
  
Tobias interrupts before Isaac can finish. "Our hostess isn't the only one who likes to watch out for the guests."  
  
Isaac flounders through sorting out the tea and then ends up standing in the kitchen clutching a tray of tea (and biscuits because Iris doesn't eat anywhere near enough) looking lost. "You heard the angel, chop chop, she's in the study and I want peace to finish up making dinner."  
  
Before dinner is ready, chicken in the oven (it's a calculated dinner, hot food tonight and then tomorrow when she's likely to avoid dinner herself in favour of sleep or curling up beneath her duvet with the curtains closed, cold dinner for tomorrow thanks to the salad already in the fridge) Laurent strolls in, grinning from ear to ear. Shirley likes the werewolf, more than likes him really, with the stories he tells of all the places he's been that are all the better for his wicked sense of humour, an easy kind of affection to him that all werewolves have, a hand on her arm, foot nudging hers. They're an odd couple, him and Isaac, the sort of people she'd never imagine being best friends – her and Cassandra for example complement each other, Shirley grounding Cassandra with her visions, Cassandra the sweet to Shirley's sour, Shirley able to let her guard down around Cassandra and Cassandra allowing herself to rant and rave to Shirley about what she's seen. Isaac is twitchy, he rambles on about strange things, doesn't know when to shut his mouth and his stories frequently don't seem to go anywhere, unlike Laurent. Laurent is suave, charismatic. Isaac reminds her of her own brother when he was sixteen and learning how to talk to girls.  
  
"So lunch was fantastic, thank you again for that," Laurent says by way of greeting even as his stomach growls at the smell of dinner cooking.  
  
"No need to thank me but you're welcome. Feel better now?"  
  
"I feel like I can sit at the table without turning into an animal, yeah," he replies, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Corbin said he'd keep me away from the livestock."  
  
She laughs at his sheepish grin. "I'd appreciate it, I'm fond of the beasts."  
  
"Well you named all your hens-"  
  
"Should've known someone would catch me talking to them."  
  
"Agnes? Isa?"  
  
"Gossipy old lady names work well, don't you think?" Laurent nods and takes a seat at the table, stretching his arms high above his head, closing his eyes. He doesn't open them right away, cocking his head to the side. "Everything okay?"  
  
"I keep an ear out for Isaac, lost little lamb without me. He's actually having a conversation, bloody hell. You," he points a finger at her, eyes open, "are something else."  
  
"They don't give this job to just anyone."  
  
"I know. Used to be my job. Isaac doesn't know, it was different back then and where we were, we've smartened up an awful lot since I was turned and even since he was turned, modern living, not all bad." He rubs the bridge of his nose then leans forward, elbows on the table. "Sorry, I'm not going to be much for conversation tonight, got that itch under the skin."  
  
"Not a problem, do you want anything?"  
  
"Just to sit until it's time to go wash up for dinner if that's not too much trouble."  
  
"Not at all, I know what those days are like."  
  
He laughs quietly as she starts looking out plates and cutlery. "I suppose you do at that, I suppose you do."  
  
He comes alive at dinner though, needling Isaac as Shirley sits at the head of the table, letting the conversation wash over her, glancing around the table. Corbin is to her right and talking away with Brogan (who's trying to sell the whole mill idea to him), Iris is trying to talk to Isaac but her gaze keeps sliding over to Laurent who winks at her or gives her a smile that has her blushing, Tobias at the other end of the table, looking Shirley's way more than once. She wonders if he misses family dinners the way she does, misses his brothers (and sisters, she knows how angels work, there are translation and concept issues abound there) and his Father the way she misses when they'd all get together. Grief starts to claw at her but she pushes it down with practiced ease and gathers the plates when they're done. Laurent doesn't stay for dessert, thanks her and claps Isaac on the shoulder about how he shouldn't wait up for him, off to do whatever he does before he changes. The moon won't be up for a while yet, it's summer and this far north it's day for just a bit longer but she knows that sometimes you need to collect yourself, get everything in order no matter how often you do something. Brogan takes Isaac's distraction as a chance to turn to Iris, wicked grin on his face.  
  
"Fancy a wild ride lass? Púcas aren't like kelpies or each uisges, we don't drown you and eat the soft parts."  
  
Iris frowns, brows drawing together. Tobias' wings rustle. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Big black horse darlin', gold eyes. Been a while since-"  
  
"I hardly think this is appropriate at the dinner table!" Tobias doesn't shout but the room seems to shudder around them and Isaac hisses, his eyes going black.  
  
"Need I remind you," Shirley starts testily and tonight is not the night she thinks, not when she's counting down to pain and grief suddenly announcing their presence, "to abide by the rules. No harm is done to another in this household, Tobias." There's something bright in his eyes, how wide they are and she can see the shadow of wings, more than one pair, casting the room behind him into shadow, Isaac leaning away from him so far he's about to topple out of his seat. "Tobias," she warns, rising to her feet and that works because the room is light and Tobias looks just like any of them at the table, breathing hard as Isaac rights himself and Brogan and Iris both stare. Corbin's eyes are on hers, keen and sharp, his lips in something that's not quite a smile but she doesn't know what it is until she takes her seat again.  
  
"I meant no disrespect but the wee lassie's been cooped up since she got here, who knows when she'll have the chance to be like the witches of old once again, wind in her hair, a man who knows-"  
  
"You can stop right there, I'll go for the ride because I'm a grown woman," Shirley wonders what she's missed if Isaac's sudden smirk (given that he's been avoiding Iris since he got here) and Tobias' sudden chagrined look is anything to go by, "but that'll be all. You're not my type Brogan, lovely as you are." Her words have Brogan dramatically clutching his heart as though shot.  
  
"You wound me! Heartbreak at the table, doesn't that count as harming someone?"  
  
"I think a broken hearted púca is a fine compromise for an angel smiting someone at the dinner table. At _my_ dinner table at least," Shirley retorts as Corbin gets to his feet to gather up  
  
"Tug of love over a witch," Isaac mutters then yelps and recoils his arm.  
  
"No tug of love, nothing as stupid as that." Iris retorts. "Just someone who thinks he has the gift of the gab," she points her spoon at Brogan before Corbin plucks it from her fingers, "and a feathery pain in the arse with a big brother complex. Right, I'm going to go watch CSI, Isaac I want to see you in action complaining about it, Brogan please can we do the ride on a night were there won't be a bloody great werewolf loping around the countryside?"  
  
Two chairs scrape back, two thank yous are thrown Shirley's way and Brogan laughs, hopping up to take care of the dishes.  
  
"I really like that one, you know," Shirley says sweetly, making Tobias look away guiltily.  
  
"You know I think I agree with Brogan," Corbin says later in the bedroom. Shirley looks up from her newspaper with a raised eyebrow – Brogan said a lot at the table, she doesn't know exactly what it is that Corbin agreed with. "The mill. I know how to work a mill. It'd give people around here more to do."  
  
She highly doubts that's it. Corbin's always skulking around the kitchen when she's busy there. "Should I wear an apron in bed?" She asks and it gets a laugh out of him.  
  
"No, I just..." he trails off, looking down at his bare feet, "I like it, I don't know why, I just like watching you do the household thing, the matriarch trip. It's like watching when you do your duties – you seem more than just your body, I can't explain it."  
  
She smiles at him, moving to sit beside him where he's washing his dirty feet (no dirty feet in their bed, that's a rule she made clear at the start) scrubbing a wealth of hard packed dirt from them. "I understand. I think. Everyone wants a matriarch?"  
  
"You really have no idea do you? She did, some of the others did too," Shirley knows who he's referring to, that touch of reverence in his voice, "but all of you when you hit that point there's this aura around you – you could be the biggest monsters and people would still kneel and kiss your feet and thank you." Her throat feels too tight suddenly because the way he's looking at her, in flannel pyjama bottoms, drying his feet off with a towel, face open and honest and in love, it's almost too much, here in this room in a house where time seems to stand still. She leans over and kisses him, curls her fingers around his chin and he's content to sit like that, to let her study him, his posture relaxed.  
  
"Come to bed, even just for an hour. Full moon isn't quite there yet."  
  
Corbin comes willingly, pushing the bowl under the bed and dropping the towel. She'll let it slide, he'll have to crawl back in the morning when the sun tinges the sky blood red, pink and orange. He curls next to her on his front, head on her shoulder, one leg over her hip and between both of hers as she drags her fingers over his scalp and down his neck, enough nail to make him break out in gooseflesh, a little whine escaping him.  
  
"Ssh, plenty of time, wait until I fall asleep then you can run wild as you like."  
  
She doesn't wake when he leaves the bed, only when she hears howls and big baying barks echo through the moors. She pulls the blankets tighter around herself and wakes at dawn to his flushed face and racing heart, all hands and teeth and feral wild rabid dog writhing under his skin. She answers with nails like talons gripping his shoulders, refusing to look away. When they're done he's dead weight, heavy and compliant and she tucks him in nice and cosy before getting up to go about her day. Her head hurts, it's blinding, her teeth are clenched so tight she thinks they might break but the adrenaline thrums through her and Corbin curls himself around her so she can feel the thump-thump-thump of his heart where his chest is flush to her back. His fingers dig into her neck, her shoulders, hard enough to make her wince but she knows it has to work this way even as his fingers work their way up and up to her scalp where the skin is tender and too tight, murmuring in Gaelic. She falls asleep like that but not for long, not deeply either, Corbin urging her to stay in bed, that he can handle things and she's sore enough that she lets him, curling into the warm space he leaves. She doesn't really sleep, just drifts, tossing and turning fitfully until the door cracks open. She assumes it's Corbin come to bring her breakfast but the tread is too heavy – Corbin is a hunter, he's exceptionally light on his feet when he wants and needs to be – and whoever it is hovers.  
  
"Shirley?" Iris then, her voice a whisper. "Corbin said you might need some help and I offered."  
  
"Thank you," Shirley croaks and she's changed because before she couldn't even handle her family seeing her as any less than what she was, what she made herself but now she's letting a relative stranger see her washed out and drawn. She pats the bed and Iris smiles brightly, offering a steaming mug and Shirley's hands are shaking so badly from pain and exhaustion that Iris has to help her steady it. She inhales, expecting tea but it's something else or there's something mixed in at least.  
  
"It's a blend I came up with," Iris says when Shirley looks between her and the mug they're both holding. "Lavender tea, Corbin said that's what you drink when you've got a migraine, skullcap and peony – good for the tightness, the cramping sort of headaches and there's a pinch of clematis, sorry I'm rambling, I just," she licks her lips and her smile is embarrassed and awkward. Shirley wriggles upright and blows across the rim of the cup, taking a careful sip. "Honey too. Tea without honey is barbaric."  
  
Shirley doesn't want to point out that Corbin just brings her any old tea because it usually doesn't do more than provide comfort because that would be rude. So instead she gives a little smile and nods. "Dian Cecht must be smiling on me, bringing you here at the same time."  
  
"Dian Cecht?" The young woman stumbles over the pronunciation as she lets go of the mug so that Shirley can sip at it.  
  
"God of healing to the Irish people, one of my Gods. Gave Nuada, the first king of the Tuatha Dé Danann his silver arm, his son Miach replaced it with flesh and blood."  
  
"They're your Gods, the people of the Goddess Danu."  
  
"Mhm, have you been reading?"  
  
"Looking for anything about magic. I was...I was a normal girl and I-" she stops herself short, fingers bunching in the fabric of her skirt. "Sorry, you've got a headache I should go."  
  
"Stay. My daughter, Caoimhe, she used to come talk to me and bring me tea when I was staying with her and her father. Honestly, nothing makes it better or worse, it's just instinct, trying to hide and curl right in on yourself. " Pain and exhaustion loosen Shirley's tongue the way alcohol does with most others and the tea is taking the edge off and maybe Dian Cecht really is looking in on a follower.  
  
"I only found out I had magic a couple of years ago. I almost killed my parents and then I saw these things, things no one else thought was there, things I couldn't explain and there were nightmares, I was screaming, I was crying, I was jumping at every shadow. They- they thought I was going nuts. _I_ thought I was going nuts. The demons were there. I didn't know what they were but I could hear them whispering right at my ear," her voice has dropped, something quiet and Shirley has to strain to hear.  "It was like they were there. Tugging me along. I did things I didn't want to do, that I'd never dreamt of doing. Said things. I wasn't..." She draws in a shuddering breath. "I wasn't. Me. Then one night a demon almost killed me to get control but all I could hear were bells. I woke up in one of those Otherworlds and started going to safe spots like this. I don't want to be in the normal world. Not until I'm safe." There's a grimace and her knuckles are white. "Safer," she amends, bitterness in her voice.  
  
They're quiet for a while, Shirley sipping her tea and wondering what to say. She recognises the posture and the way Iris is holding herself so carefully. Even though Shirley knows it's fine to fall apart, she knows equally well that there are times you need to just pull yourself together and remind yourself that yes, you're strong enough.  
  
"What I did, it was my choice, my decision. I'm never going to pretend otherwise but I didn't have all the facts. You'll learn more about the Courts as you go but even though I won't stop praying to my Gods – and that's just a whole other _thing_ – they have agendas of their own. Some things remember what it's like to be powerful and they want that back. They don't see the world we do and we're nothing more to them than pieces on the board."  
  
"Are you and Tobias tag teaming me?" Iris asks when Shirley's done.  
  
"Not intentionally, no. Why?"  
  
"He says a lot of stuff like that. It's weird, I thought he'd be ready to smite me and that the vampire would be okay with what I am."  
  
"That's how it is sometimes. There's a lot of bad press about magic because of the demons and I'm sure there's bad press about them, I've only ever met them somewhere like this with rules about how to behave."  
  
"Tobias says they've been through awful things before most anything else was even a thought," Iris comments and really, Shirley isn't surprised.  
  
"Look, you'll figure this out. I don't think we're always what people say we are. You're new to this and it won't be perfect sunsets and fairytale endings – fairytale endings that you grew up with are just made up, they're not the real ones – but you'll manage. If you heard bells and ended up in Otherworld, that's a sign that someone cares so you know, you hold onto that." She finishes the tea and exhaustion hits her hard and she's swooning. Iris grabs the mug and offers a smile.  
  
"It'll do that, helps you drift off. Thanks. For the advice. It...it helps, hearing things like that." Shirley pats her hand, perhaps a bit too heavily and then she's gone.  
  
By late afternoon she's feeling less fragile for lack of a better word and ends up down in the library, running her fingers over the spines of old books, not quite sure what she's looking for until her hand stops. She lived with a magical jukebox in the pub that liked to play jokes or try to sympathise or just do what it felt it needed to do with a till that shot out in expectation of money and caught you in the stomach hard enough to bruise and knock the breath from your lungs until you learned to stand to one side. Iris is off on her ride with Brogan from the sounds of things – Shirley doesn't have a horse on the farm but she can hear one whinnying – and Corbin and Isaac are watching the telly in the sitting room, swearing profusely over the football. Laurent's buried in a copy of a Sherlock Holmes novel, sprawled across the library couch with a coffee on the table next to him and a plate balanced on his stomach with a half-eaten sandwich. He looks up over his book and nods as she takes her own and curls up in the armchair. Laurent looks tired, bags under his eyes and she no doubt looks the same. Turning at the full moon can't be controlled but she knows how it feels to change your body into something entirely different and even once you get used to it, it's still unpleasant and uncomfortable. This though, this is what she needs, some peace and quiet, someone else in the room and a book that she thumbs through, brain not really awake enough or feeling up to reading but somehow skimming the pages relaxes her until she jumps at Laurent's voice.  
  
"Gonna go get some air, you want anything? I can come back."  
  
"Thanks but I'm fine." He smiles and nods then he's out the door, whistling to himself until the front door opens and closes and it's just the noise of the TV from a couple of rooms away, no more whinnying so Iris and Brogan must be a long way off by now. She yawns so wide her jaw pops and stretches, readjusting so she can swing her legs over the arm of the chair.  
  
Again she almost falls asleep – must've been a family, that much grief going to her and not Caoimhe and she could ring and check but let Caoimhe get on with things instead of worrying about her mum – but there's a rustle of wings and there's Tobias, reclining in the other armchair with a newspaper. She smiles at him and tries to go back to the book she's not really reading. It's working, letting her eyes drift over the pages because her headache isn't nearly as bad as it was, she'll have to thank Iris again for the tea too.  
  
"Are you feeling better?" Tobias asks, smiling cautiously.  
  
"Much," she replies, sitting up straighter.  
  
"Not the sort of reading material I thought you'd go for if I'm honest."  
  
She picks up the book and actually _looks_ at the spine then laughs. "What, heathen pagans can't thumb through a Catholic bible to get rid of the headaches?"  
  
"Well your people had the interesting tales didn't they? Cú Chulainn springs to mind."  
  
"That was our bedtime story." Tobias stares at her for a long moment, as if expecting her to reveal the punch line. "Mum was a banshee from a line of banshees, what better way to learn your history."  
  
"Those tales were violent, to say the least." She gives the book in her lap a significant glance. "Point taken. Still, the bible, not light reading. For most."  
  
"My hand stopped on it, if I'm honest. I've never come into this room actively looking for a book that I know of, there's maybe an idea or just a thought but my hand just stops. I let the room do it."  
  
"I'm not sure if that makes it more weird or less weird."  
  
"You know," she says breezily, more a sigh than anything else, shrugging, "I think it's both."  
  
Tobias smiles at her, newspaper forgotten and she feels herself start to relax more. She's noticed it ever since he arrived, the way the constant aches and pains of what she is just seem a little less in his presence and she chalked it up to him being an angel but now, looking down at the book in her lap, recalling past conversations, she wonders. Because despite what she's said, she's taken in some of what she's been looking at for the past who knows how long, thumbing her way through and she ducks her head so her hair will fall from behind her ear to hide her little smile for a moment before she looks up again.  
  
"You know, I said to Iris I thought it was Dian Cecht looking out for me when she brought me tea – lavender, specifically. Corbin just brings tea, he's known me long enough to know that tea and painkillers don't work for the after-effects of a death wail. Then I thought it was maybe the herbs. It was probably that, I'd never discount a witch's skill but," she pushes herself up with her elbows, "a few things fell into place. You hovering around Iris giving her guidance when she's been going from place to place having nightmares," she drums her fingers against the book, watching Tobias squirm. "Then there's the name. It took longer than other names do, I'm better with Gaelic names. It's not Dian Cecht looking after one of those of his wife's blood. Not today, Raphael."  
  
"Your kind are always so good at figuring this out," he groans but he doesn't sound aggrieved, just surprised and maybe amused.  
  
"Your secret's safe with me."  
  
"Thanks, I was going to tell you when I left but this house-"  
  
"Has a mind of its own," she finishes. "Just stay here for a while?"  
  
His smile lights up the room and she could swear her fingers and toes are tingling. So she decides to just go with it, stretching her arms and legs before she lets herself go limp and boneless. Life really isn't what she thought it'd be and for all that she has regrets she'll carry with her until the end of time, she's not going to complain about it.


End file.
